Tea
by MildredandBobbin
Summary: Sequel to Coffee (Reunion series). "Is this all you want?" John's words startled Sherlock out of his silent contemplation and he looked up in surprise. He frowned, processing John's question. "You will need to be more specific John." "The Work, your violin, our friendship. That's enough for you? You don't need intimacy? Love?"


Title: Tea

Author: Mildredandbobbin

Rating: M

Pairing/Characters: John & Sherlock, John/Sherlock

Warnings/contents: Friendship, friends to lovers, fluff, sex, the 'possibly pre-' has been deleted from the slash

Summary: Sequel to Coffee, (Reunion series).

"Is this all you want?" John's words startled Sherlock out of his silent contemplation and he looked up in surprise. He frowned, processing John's question. "You will need to be more specific John."

"The Work, your violin, our friendship. That's enough for you? You don't need intimacy? Love?"

* * *

**Tea**

"A year today," said John suddenly. He and Sherlock were sitting at breakfast, both reading the newspaper. Tea, toast and eggs were on the table.

Sherlock looked up at that, mind racing. Ah. Mary's accident. John didn't talk about Mary much, or if he did, it wasn't to Sherlock. When he _did_ it was usually a relevant anecdote that he cut short as soon as his dead wife's name was mentioned.

"Ah," said Sherlock, wondering if something more was required, and if so, what? Oh. "Do you, ah, need a hug?"

It was John's turn to look up sharply, eyebrows raised. "Uh. Nope. No. I'm fine." He frowned. "But thanks for offering."

"The offer is always open," Sherlock said generously and turned the page of his section of the paper. After all, he did not mind John's embrace. In fact, in Sherlock's opinion it happened far too infrequently but with an increasing regularity that indicated, from John's perspective, that hugging was an acceptable form of intimacy between two friends. Usually it occurred spontaneously, in the context of a post-risk scenario but occasionally Sherlock was tempted to see how flexible those parameters were.

John blinked and, brow creasing again, returned to his newspaper.

* * *

It was not long after that, a month at the most, that Sherlock began to notice the women. Or more accurately, noticed John noticing the women.

It wasn't that John flirted, or even asked any of them on dates, but whenever they encountered a woman that was within John's parameters of attractiveness and preferred age range, especially one who exhibited signs of attraction, he would get a bleak, haunted look.

On one case a vivacious brunette (step-daughter of the victim's brother) showed particular interest and asked John out for a coffee. John mumbled a refusal and practically stormed out of the woman's pagoda.

Sherlock knew he should have been pleased that John had finally seen sense about not trying to incorporate a dating life with The Work, but even he was aware this behaviour was a bit not good. It was so not good, that Sherlock took the unprecedented step of asking Molly for her opinion.

She looked at him warily and then told him John was still working through losing Mary, that he just needed time and he wasn't ready to start dating yet but was thinking about it.

"You're still grieving for Mary," Sherlock noted that evening.

John looked up startled and then seemed to become annoyed to the point that he nearly turned pink. Was that too personal? Mary always seemed off limits but this was about John and his _feelings_. Surely as John's best friend, John's feelings were Sherlock's business too.

"Yes, yes I am. It's only been a year for God's sake. She was my wife."

Sherlock considered. "How long did you mourn me?"

John did flush red then. "Long enough, you bastard. It was Mary who helped me with that." He cleared his throat and returned to his journal. After a minute he muttered something that sounded distinctly like: "Don't think I can bring myself to do that again."

* * *

Sherlock was sitting next to John on the sofa. Empty takeaway containers lay on the coffee table. There was some drivel about home design playing on the telly and Sherlock tapped away on his laptop ignoring it. Suddenly he felt a hand slide into his hair and what could only be described as a _ruffle_. He turned in surprise and saw John with his arm resting along the back of the sofa between them, calmly watching the television. He glanced at Sherlock with a bland, slightly fond expression and stroked his thumb against his scalp. It felt surprisingly pleasurable. Sherlock leaned back into John's hand with a sigh and settled more comfortably on the sofa. John turned back to the telly, a slight smile on his lips, his fingers lightly toying with Sherlock's curls.

* * *

Sherlock cleaned and tuned his violin, a methodical process which both freed and focused his mind for pursuing more interesting lines of thought.

"Is this all you want?" John's words startled Sherlock out of his silent contemplation and he looked up in surprise.

He frowned, processing John's question. "You will need to be more specific John."

"The Work, your violin, our friendship. That's enough for you? You don't need intimacy? Love?"

Sherlock took in John, darting his gaze over his body, his expression. He seemed maudlin, pensive, almost irritated. Potentially seeking an argument? Wasn't their friendship intimate enough—oh he meant sexual intimacy. Of course.

"Yes, it's enough," hedged Sherlock.

John sighed and flipped up his newspaper and seemed to return to reading it.

Why had he asked? Was he considering dating again? Was he asking permission? Validation? He ran through John's previous question. Perhaps best to clarify a few points.

"John," he said. "I hope you realise that your friendship is extremely important to me. I consider it integral to my happiness."

John didn't look up, he licked his bottom lip and nodded curtly. "Thank you, Sherlock. That—means a lot. Your friendship is important to me too."

Sherlock waited, wondering if there would be any more forthcoming. John gnawed on his bottom lip and turned the page.

After a beat Sherlock shifted in his seat and resumed his thoughts.

* * *

Things had, with a slow creep, become not all right. John's temper grew increasingly short. He seemed mired in a funk of irritation and annoyance.

Normally Sherlock would have just ignored the passive aggressive snipes and the intermittent rages about whatever it was he'd done to garner John's disapproval (you'd have thought he'd have gotten used to body parts in the refrigerator by now, it should be a familiar and therefore comforting sight). Now however he found himself storming off to his room to avoid them, shouting back in irritation or snapping at John to take a walk and leave everybody (ie Sherlock) in peace.

Yet later, when John had calmed down he would squeeze Sherlock's arm in apology, reach over and ruffle his hair, and sometimes if he'd been particularly furious and had said the kind of things that made Sherlock want to crawl inside himself and lash out hurtfully in return, he would wordlessly put his arms around Sherlock and press his forehead against his chest until Sherlock returned the hug and therefore forgave him.

"John!" Sherlock finally snapped after John had harangued him for nearly ten-minutes about his so-called selfish behaviour. "Why do you stay here, if I'm so intolerable?"

"Because the only person I bloody well have left is _you_! And I fucking well chose you, you utter prick!" John roared.

Both of them went still.

John grabbed his coat. He slammed the door as he left the flat.

* * *

Sherlock considered hiding the newspaper. There was a write up about the Willoughby Smith case and as usual most of it was focused on Sherlock's fall from grace, faked death, return and presumed personal life. _As usual_, they'd dredged up the old rumours about his and John's relationship. Recently widowed John Watson, living again with Sherlock Holmes. The kind of thing that would send John into a ten minute outraged rant. The kind of thing that would make John declare they were Not A Couple and avow his heterosexuality.

John however snatched the paper out of his hands before he could slip it under the table. "You got a mention?" he asked, spotting the headline as he sat down at the table. He flipped the paper open. "This will be good. What did they say? Some tosh, I'll bet."

Sherlock grunted something non-committal and surreptitiously watched John read the article out of the corner of his eye. John's eyebrows raised, he snorted, his mouth twisted and he grew silent. He turned to page six to continue reading. He chewed his toast silently. Finally he folded the paper and set it down.

He took a sip of tea. "Right," he said. "I'm at the clinic today. Angelo's for dinner tonight?"

* * *

Sherlock watched John talking to the woman—a solicitor on a case they were investigating. She was his type, his preferred physique, degree of attractiveness, intelligence and personality type, well within the age range deemed acceptable. She was interested in John, mirroring him, exhibiting all the tells of sexual attraction, the tiny flirtations, touching his arm lightly. John clearly showed interest in return.

Sherlock determined that he didn't mind (he ignored the odd pang in his lower abdominal region, probably just his gall bladder or imminent kidney failure). It had been too much to hope John's focus on the work and prohibition on dating would continue indefinitely. John had needs; intimacy, love. Once Sherlock would have dismissed this as a useless distraction but that was before he had to fake his own death to save John's life, before he saw John stand stoically by both his grave and that of his dead wife.

Sherlock watched as John flashed the woman his most charming smile. The woman fluttered and giggled in response. Sherlock was about to turn away when John looked up and saw him. His eyes met Sherlock's for a moment and John's smile faded but then he looked away and returned his attention to the woman.

Sherlock walked back to the road.

He didn't say anything about John's upcoming date and he didn't try to sabotage it. John needed this and Sherlock had seen him unhappy for far too long. He watched out of the corner of his eye, over the edge of his laptop as John readied for his dinner date with the woman (Angela? Alice?), he wore the shirt Sherlock liked best, the blue one that brought out his eyes, some awful cardigan (Merino though, pure wool), and his date shoes. Creature of habit, was John Watson.

He hesitated in the doorway to the living room, as if waiting for Sherlock's comment.

"Well, I'm going out. Do you have any plans?"

Sherlock looked up as if he'd been completely oblivious to John's preparations. "Research. Give my regards to—Alexa? Andrea?"

John smiled a little tightly. "Alexandra. Right. Don't wait up."

"Of course, knew it was an 'A' name, she seems…pleasant…have fun." Sherlock ostensibly returned his gaze to the laptop screen. John stared at him for a long moment and then blinked and looked around as if seeking an answer and then left the room. The door to the flat closed, Sherlock heard John's footsteps on the stairs and then the downstairs door slamming shut. Sherlock closed his laptop and shoved it onto the floor before throwing himself along the sofa in a funk.

It was only an hour and a fourteen minutes later when John returned. Sherlock quickly sat up as he heard his footsteps on the stairs. He hadn't even shifted off the sofa and was still in his suit. Surely the date couldn't be over already? Alexandra had been interested, what had John done to put her off? He should be enjoying dinner right now, anticipating imminent, stress relieving, sexual intercourse.

John opened the door.

Sherlock sprang to his feet and went into the kitchen. John was taking off his coat.

"You're home early."

John glanced up at him, rubbing the back of his neck. "Um, yeah, didn't work out."

Sherlock licked his bottom lip. "She was interested. It was you who ended the evening."

John hung up his coat carefully. "Bit boring to be honest. Was hoping you'd interrupt me with a case or something." He smiled weakly.

Sherlock didn't laugh, his chest felt tight. The woman had been no more boring than the rest of them, yet John had come home.

"Boring's never bothered you before," he said, taking a step closer.

John turned then, but avoided his eyes. "Yeah well. It's different now."

Sherlock advanced on him, a peculiar fluttering within his mid-section. "Different how?"

John looked off to the left, his body at attention. "It's hard work having a relationship outside of—" he waved his hand. "This, you. Too hard to bother with boring."

Sherlock stopped a hand's breadth from John.

"This isn't enough for you. You want love, intimacy."

John swallowed and shut his eyes. "Yeah."

Sherlock studied John. John, with his nicest button down shirt, plain cardigan, grey-shot hair, bags under his eyes and lines on his face. John who was standing, tense and agitated. John who cared about Sherlock and was more important than comfort or reputation. John, who right now needed caring too. Sherlock felt something unfurling within him, something he'd kept ruthlessly tucked away for a very long time. Hope was the least of it.

He closed the space between them and leaned his forehead down to John's. John's eyes remained shut but his breath quickened.

"John," Sherlock murmured and he grazed his fingertips over the buttons of his cardigan.

John's jaw twitched and his eyes flickered open, meeting Sherlock's. His gaze darted down to Sherlock's mouth and Sherlock found his own eyes drawn to John's mouth in turn, that funny, expressive mouth. He suddenly very much needed to know how it felt, how it tasted. He tilted his head and very carefully pressed their lips together. John gave the slightest start, a small intake of air and then his thin lips parted under Sherlock's. Sherlock froze at the frisson that ran through his centre, and he held there, lips pressed to John's, their breaths loud. After a beat he slowly drew back, seeking John's eyes.

"I can give that to you," he said, voice uncommonly rough. "Let me."

John's tongue darted out to wet his lips. "Let you…"

Sherlock solemnly began unbuttoning his cardigan. "You need to be touched; let me."

John gave a shuddering sigh and leaned his forehead back against Sherlock's, their noses bumped, cheeks grazed and then John lifted his hand to Sherlock's cheek and their mouths crushed together.

Sherlock pushed John back against the wall, deepening the kiss. Their mouths slid together, he felt John's tongue against his own. His heart pounded as he explored John's mouth, sucking on his bottom lip, having his own claimed in return. The press and brush of chest and hip, the catch and gasp of breath were overwhelming. He finished working open John's cardigan and then unbuttoned his shirt until he could slide his hand inside, feel the softness of John's skin below his ribs. John clutched at him, and when Sherlock canted his hips forward he felt a gratifying hardness press into his thigh.

He dragged his mouth over the stubble on John's jaw, mouthed at his throat and then dropped to his knees.

"Jesus," John hissed.

Sherlock quickly unfastened John's trousers. He buried his nose in John's crotch, breathing in his musky scent through the polyester-cotton of his pants. It had been some time since he'd done this but it wasn't something he'd deleted (despite his best efforts) and surely he could provide a reasonably satisfying experience. He peeled John's pants down a fraction, the sight of coarse blonde-grey pubic hair sending another frisson of desire straight to his own groin. He pushed the underwear down over John's enticing bulge and freed his erection. Circumcised, interesting. John's erect penis was of average size and was perfectly average in shape and it was flushed red and it hardened even further as Sherlock took it in his hand.

"Oh God," breathed John, hands clenching at his side. "Sherlock—Oh."

Sherlock licked the glans and took it into his mouth. He savoured the firm weight, the tangibility of it inside his mouth, took the length in as far as he could several times until John was thrusting his hips lightly and making soft needful noises. He was surprised by his own enjoyment of this, the desire to have more, to have John in his mouth, to roll his tongue around him, to feel him penetrate as deeply as possible. Arousal bloomed anew and he rocked his hips seeking friction. With his free hand he fondled John's testicles, (heavy in his palm, slightly uneven in size) and stroked along his perineum. He closed his palm around the bottom half of John's erection to a comfortable depth and began fellating at a steady pace. He felt John's hands at his shoulders, felt his fingers brush against his hair, stroke the side of his face but he didn't hold him or pull (Sherlock hated that).

Slick, obscene noises filled the air, accentuated by John's ragged breaths and punctuated by Sherlock's occasional moans. His own erection was becoming increasingly uncomfortable and with a groan he dropped his free hand from John's groin and reached down to palm himself through his trousers, bucking into the pleasurable contact.

John groaned and, gripping Sherlock's shoulder and the nape of his neck, he began pumping his hips until all Sherlock was doing was gripping John's cock with his hand and letting him fuck into his mouth. He rocked his own hips into his hand with increasing urgency.

"Sherlock, I'm going—" John bit out. "Oh God—"

Sherlock reached for his hip and held him in place as John thrust into him one last time.

"Sherlock, oh fuck, oh God, oh yes—"

Sherlock swallowed the bitter ejaculate that pulsed into his mouth and licked and tongued John's glans until he whimpered and flinched away. Sherlock pressed his forehead to John's belly and fumbled at his own trousers, barely undoing them before he thrust his hand into his pants. He tugged himself off quick and desperate, biting back his cries, clutching at John's hip with his free hand, John's hands sliding in his hair.

He held still for a long moment, panting, his body humming with the chemistry of orgasm. Reality started to seep in as the after-glow faded. He wasn't quite ready to look up. The potential for heterosexual panic suddenly loomed large and Sherlock needed a moment before he was ready to risk reading John's expression.

He tucked John away and zipped him up. He lifted his other hand to John's hip and laid his cheek against his belly.

He felt the rise and fall of John's body with each breath, felt his hand in his hair, stroking and smoothing. He could hear John's stomach gurgle.

"Hey," John said gently.

Slowly Sherlock raised his face. He saw John staring down at him, expression unreadable. John exhaled. "Cup of tea?"

Sherlock nodded and let John take his clean hand and pull him to his feet.

"I need to change," Sherlock muttered and fled to his room.

When he eventually emerged, dressed in his pyjamas and dressing gown he found two mugs of tea on the table and John was busy reheating some leftovers in the microwave.

"I only had a drink with Alexandra, so I haven't actually eaten anything. Have you—" John suddenly got a funny look and he caught Sherlock's eye and held for a moment, Sherlock suddenly grasped the innuendo, and they both began to snigger. John covered his eyes with one hand and gave another giggle. "Oh God," he said. "This is either going to be the best sexual relationship I've ever had or the worst." He dropped his hand and looked at Sherlock. "Thank you," he said firmly. "For um, that." He licked his bottom lip. "Is…that wasn't just a one time—"

"No," said Sherlock quickly. He held John's gaze. "I told you: love and intimacy, I can offer both."

John ducked his head for a moment and studied his shoes. He looked up, a funny, bemused look in his expression. "All right." He cleared his throat and looked off towards the microwave. "I didn't think you liked that sort of thing. Sentiment. All that."

Sherlock exhaled, must they analyse this? "I find I like rather less the idea of not having you," he admitted.

John adjusted the kettle on the counter top. He nodded. "All right." The microwave beeped and he opened the door and took out the container of leftover Chinese. He put it on the bench and dished out two servings. He washed his hands and dug two sets of cutlery from the drawer. He picked up one plate and put it and the knives and forks on the table, and then took the other plate and set it down on the table as well. He sat down. Sherlock sat as well.

"For the record," said John, picking up his fork. "I feel the same. About you." He stabbed a piece of honey-soy chicken and chewed it. He swallowed. "Apart from Mary, you're the only person I've ever wanted to spend the rest of my life with." He looked up at Sherlock and raised his eyebrows. "Even if you are ugly and have a cock." The corner of his mouth quirked up.

Sherlock felt his chest fill with the giddy, light, happy emotion he'd always associated with John. He smirked in return and they held each other's gaze for a long moment before they both broke into grins.

* * *

When John had finished eating he got up from the table and picked up his plate. He paused next to Sherlock's chair on the way to the sink and placed a kiss on his forehead.

Sherlock looked up at him in surprise but did not comment. The touch of John's lips seemed to linger after the fact.

When Sherlock had finished eating he left his plate where it was but made two new cups of tea and carried them into the living room. John was sitting on his side of the sofa, watching telly. Sherlock put the teas down on the coffee table and sat next to him and when John looked up, Sherlock returned the kiss, his lips pressed firm and sure to John's temple. John looked up at him and smiled softly and Sherlock shifted down so he could rest his head on John's shoulder. John tilted his head against Sherlock's in return. There was mindless drivel on television but Sherlock found he didn't mind. He fished his phone out of his dressing gown pocket and checked his email. John put his hand on Sherlock's thigh. Sherlock found he didn't mind that either.

End.


End file.
